


Dream Catcher

by Riffler



Category: Xmen comicverse
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-28
Updated: 2011-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-16 00:21:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riffler/pseuds/Riffler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young cat loses everything, or so he believes. His travels lead him to Wolverine, where he discovers a hidden talent that changes the lives of them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dream Catcher

Dream Catcher

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He hadn’t always been alone.

He could remember a long ago time of constant warmth, plentiful food, people with loving hands and gentle words. One special person always came to mind when he remembered those early days, a girl, just a kit herself, like he was then. Her name was Amber, and she was his person. He let her carry him in the most awkward positions, or put him in her baby buggy, or even put tiny clothes on him. Because she was his, and he was hers, and they loved each other. She had given him a name, officially making him a member of that select group of animals lucky enough to have a home, to belong. His had been a fairy-tale kitten hood, fat with cream and pampering.

The fact that he couldn’t remember his name any more was distressing.

The event that resulted in him losing his home and Amber too was beyond his understanding. She was gone one day, taken away, after a long time of lying in bed not smelling like her usual self, smelling wrong. Her father had carried her out so swaddled in blankets that only her small, wan face was visible and although she looked at him through dull eyes she didn’t reach out to stroke him or speak to him as she was swept away. After a while many of her toys, books and clothing began to disappear and her scent to fade from her room, the home. Amber had somehow… ceased to be.

The atmosphere in the house changed. Sadness prevailed, and tension, with voices frequently raised in anger. Looks cast his way were sometimes hard and hurtful, and although he was still fed and allowed to stay inside he was restless and uncertain if he wanted to remain here now. He missed Amber so. He thought often about leaving, trying to find her, but the idea frightened him and he was unable to put desire into action. The world was huge and full of unknown, terrible dangers for a small, young cat such as he.

After a time Amber’s father stopped coming home. It was another blow for the cat for the man had always been kind to him in a distracted sort of way. His desire to abandon this place strengthened. The day the woman threw a cooking pot at him simply because he’d licked clean a bowl of beaten eggs left on the table was the day he finally did it. He slipped through an open window, out, away from the bad feelings there, and it was a relief to leave all of it behind at last.

Luckily for him the people of the town were well fed and discarded much food in their trash cans, for this bounty supported him while he worked at becoming self-sufficient, at surviving on his own. Amber never left his thoughts, and it was terribly frustrating to have to put his search for her on hold at times while he learned to live independently.

Hunting, he soon discovered, was a difficult, even bewildering thing. The small creatures he stalked evaded him with embarrassing ease, and he would hiss with frustration and anger when time after time the chase ended with mouse or vole vanishing before his eyes. He eventually learned that ambush was the easiest, least energy-expending way to catch his food. Let it come to him. Yes, of course! He had endless patience and would doze for hours hidden deep in the grass near the smelly mouse trails, their tiny rustlings bringing him instantly to deadly focus.

And so he was only too happy to stop raiding trash cans and rely on his admittedly shaky, new-found hunting skills. Humans were always chasing him away with curses or some hard-flung object, anyway, and he was tired of their loud noises, their anger. Increasingly wary, he gradually moved away from town, out to the woods that ran along the reservoir, across the tracks.

A small hidden space beneath a thick spread of raspberry canes became his den, the place he returned to at dawn to curl up and sleep, emerging only at dusk to hunt the woods. It was safer after dark. He was almost invisible then, with just a little caution on his part. After feeding, taking great care to keep hidden, he would make his way back to town, there to prowl alleys and streets, searching, always searching for her. Sometimes in the deepest, darkest part of the night when the town was at its most still he would stalk the manicured lawns and sidewalks in plain view, feeling cocky and more sure of himself with each passing night. But always, always before dawn he would make his way to Amber’s house and there crouch hidden beneath the dense shrubs of the neighboring home, observing, listening, scenting, seeking any sign at all that Amber had returned. And always, as the first light of dawn purpled the horizon, he would turn away, creep back to his little den at the edge of the woods, unrewarded, and sorely disheartened.

But despite these repeated disappointments it suited him, this wild life. As weeks passed and he grew, his kitten fat dropped away, revealing wiry muscle and a lean, lanky hunter’s body. His stamina increased. Hunting was still not easy and while his pounce missed more often than he liked, he managed to keep at least something in his belly most of the time. The days were warm, the sun bright, the breezes gentle and filled with scents to seek out. It was good to be a young tom in the summertime!

Trips to town became less frequent. He let the sounds and smells of the forest captivate him and took endless delight in investigating all of its little rocky hollows and leafy labyrinths, so perfect for a cat like him to hide in. He marked out a territory, spraying urine high on trunks, bushes, and clumps of grass, stretching tall against those trees to rake long gouges in the bark with his sharp claws. The final ritual was to rub cheeks and lips against low branches, often purring as he did. It was satisfying, comforting, doing these things.

Then one night a curious thing happened. He’d been a long time crouched watching a mouse hole in the grasses, waiting for the creature inside to poke its head out, as he knew it would, because really, mice weren’t very smart. His patience was rewarded when a tiny whiskered face appeared, black eyes blinking rapidly. Lightning reflexes and a keen edge to his hunger made for deadly quick paws and the mouse’s life ended before it knew what had happened.

Growling, the cat turned with his prize in his teeth and saw to his utter shock a human hand withdrawing from his back, it had actually touched him, he could feel it now, the exact place, even smell it, human scent with some other smell rising off his fur. The human was crouching right there behind him in the brush. The limp mouse fell from the cat’s mouth, and quickly before the man could steal it he snatched it up and ran. As he pelted off he heard a sound behind him, one that raised his hackles and faltered his lightning dash. A soft chuckle, made by a deep, rough voice…it attracted him and upset him, he couldn’t understand it, so he kept running, back to his little home beneath the raspberry canes.

Later, mouse eaten, he settled down for a thorough wash and to ponder the odd thing that had happened at the mouse hole. The man. Was it truly a man? How amazing that he’d crept so close in complete silence! Men were always noisy. Why was this one not? Before cleaning the man smell from his coat he sniffed deeply of it, of the other scent that was mixed with it. A thick smell, sharp but pleasant, familiar…smoke. Yes. Smoke and fire. A good smell. And the sound the man had made with his mouth, that was good, too. These things reminded him of Amber and her father. Of a special room in Amber’s house, one with a thick, soft floor, and many cozy chairs to sleep on. Her father’s favorite room. A place where a fire was always burning, the air always smoke-scented. Amber often carried him there to play. He would leap and bound, pouncing with wild abandon, Amber running after him, giggling, all of it framed by the sound of her father’s deep, soft laugh as he sat before the flames with a drink in his hand, watching them.

The cat’s eyes opened, staring at the brambles before his face, seeing not them or that special time but the man, the strange man who moved silently like he did and smelled like fire. Who laughed like Amber’s father.

His heart hurt him. His head hurt, too. He wanted Amber. He wanted…he wanted to belong. To be loved again. To matter to someone. It had been so long, and he was so very, very lonely.

With a tiny cry he left his den, making his way back to the mouse hole, to the man smell there. He followed it, slowly, cautiously, taking care to look behind himself often just in case… The scent of the man took him beyond his own urine-marked territory, deep into the forest. It took a long time to piece out his route for he didn’t move in a straight line like most men. He moved stealthily, as he himself did, a meandering trail, keeping to cover. To his utter astonishment he realized the man had been tracking him, tracing his path for quite some time before hunkering patiently behind him at the mouse hole.

Finally, though, the scent trail left his own and straightened out. The man was moving purposefully now, with long strides. They led him to a clearing, and here the cat stopped, crouching beneath thick bushes at the glade’s edge. He could smell the fire-smell strongly here, and the man’s smell, too. A small cabin with a crooked porch greeted him, and there was the man, seated on the steps. Looking directly at the shrub he was hiding in. Startled, the cat retreated a bit. The man grinned and tossed something toward him. Food. Meat. After a few moments, another, larger piece followed. The man opened the door to his cabin. Shifting golden light and the soft sounds of the fire spilled out. The cat was left alone in the early dawn.

After a time he slipped out of his hiding place and ate the meat, knowing the man was watching. He sat down and washed his face after finishing, casually, thoroughly, to show the man he’d been taken off guard at the mouse hole, that he was not afraid of him.

The following evening the cat expanded his range to include the man and his cabin. He was intrigued, and fell into a loose routine of returning every few days. If the man wasn’t there, he waited around until he returned. Sometimes days would pass before the man came back. The relief he felt upon seeing him again was a little disconcerting. He imagined himself giving the man a proper greeting: full on approach with tail held high, a few soft meows, and slowly blinking eyes. Hello, I am so glad to see you!

The man would always toss a bit of meat and the cat would eat it in full view, then retreat to his shrubs to observe for a time, and struggle with himself. He wanted to approach. He wanted to feel the man’s fingers scratching his throat, his ears. To curl up in his lap and share body heat. But the man never made any sort of welcoming motion or called to him. Other than tossing bits food it was as if he didn’t matter at all. It was enough to make him keep his distance.

 

********

 

Summer passed quietly into fall. The days remained warm and sunny, nights pleasantly cool. The season made for better hunting, for this was the time of year when the small forest animals were busily out and about, hoarding food for the long winter ahead. A time of plenty for both hunter and hunted.

The night of the accident began as any other night.

After having spent some time hiding in ambush near his favorite mouse trails but having nothing to show for it he gave up and began instead to prowl the borders of his territory, refreshing his scent posts, sniffing out possible new ambush sites. At the furthest edge of his turf, just outside its border he discovered the partially eaten carcass of a large animal. It smelled like the same meat the man always gave him, not as fresh but still good. Overlying that delicious aroma was the rank scent of another animal, one the cat had never smelled before. He was very hungry but stopped to look and listen for a time before dismissing the new scent and approaching the carcass.

Meat. A huge amount of it, enough to last for weeks. He would have a truly full belly for the first time since leaving Amber’s home. Salivating, he crouched down and began to feed, growling softly. His food. His meat. His.

It was as if the forest exploded behind him. A bellowing roar, wood splintering, heavy feet pounding the earth. He had only enough time to whip around in terror before something huge was upon him, all gaping jaws, red rimmed eyes and black, black fur. He shrieked and leaped as the creature flung out an arm big and solid as a tree trunk, its massive, clawed paw swatting him in mid air. It was a terrible blow that sent his small body spinning wildly out and away. He landed hard, tumbling over and over before finally finding his feet and speeding off, back into his territory, away from the beast.

He ran and ran, stopping only when the cabin came into view, the sight of it jarring him out of his mindless panic. Shaking, panting, he crept beneath the shrub he always hid in. His mind was locked on what had just happened, replaying it over and over. He would never forget the smell of that animal, would never again approach a carcass so carelessly. He knew he was lucky to have escaped as easily as he had.

Gradually he began to calm, his rigid crouch relaxed some and he attempted to lie down more comfortably. At the small movement there was a grating in his front leg and a tiny warning ache that burst into such agony it seemed to pierce his brain, make his vision blur. His first impulse was to run, to flee from it but he didn’t dare move. He tried to lick it away but his tongue on that spot hurt and so did moving his head.

So he retreated by closing his eyes and forcing his mind to go to the place he liked to visit most when he was alone in his den. To Amber. His life with her. It helped, and after a time his ruminations led him into a restless, shivering sleep.

When he awoke the man was crouched before him. The man, bringer of food, posessor of fire. His smoky smell was all around him, and so was the smell of meat. He was here to help. A tiny piece of flesh dropped before the cat’s nose, fragrant, savory, bloody. He leaned to pick it up but pain stopped him and, growling, he bit angrily at the place on his leg but stopped immediately because that didn’t help one bit. The man shifted closer, extending his open hand, a ball of meat resting on his fingertips. Gratefully the cat ate it, licked the juices off. Another one followed, and another after that. As his belly filled he became powerfully sleepy and strangely unable to hold his head up any longer. His shrub and the man spun dizzily and he fought against this weirdness but was swept helplessly away. The last thing he saw were the man’s big hands reaching out for him.

**********

Warmth. All-pervading, all encompassing, wonderful, baking warmth. The man close by, gently touching, fixing, arranging, creating comfort where before there was only pain. Food in plenty. Cool, fresh water in a tiny bowl. He was being looked after. He was inside the man’s cabin, he was safe. He could relax, now, and let the man take care of him, let him solve the problem of his injury.

After two days the meat stopped making him sleepy. He felt much better, ready to leave his soft bed of folded blankets, eager to explore the cabin and the man. The man, especially, for he was a puzzle, one the cat wanted very much to figure out. He wanted to smell deeply of him, to lick his skin again and feel those big hands, those strong fingers, stroking him, scratching his itchy places. He wanted the man to call to him, invite him onto his lap. To touch him because he wanted to, not because he had to.

When the man prepared his food that evening the cat eagerly stumped about, meowing, rubbing his cheeks and lips against jean clad legs. That helped to make them smell more alike, and it was good. Much later, when the man went into that other room and got into his bed the cat followed him, watching silently from the floor as the blanket heaved and shifted, the man settling, making himself comfortable. His heart leaped when a hand lowered from the bedding, the man’s face peering over the edge, and the long-awaited words of invitation came from his mouth. His fingers wiggled a bit, too, to make it even clearer. As quickly as he could the cat came to him and was carefully picked up off the floor and set gently on the soft, soft bed.

Oh, it was nice up there! He used to sleep with Amber in her bed, every night. He crept onto the man’s chest, began to knead awkwardly with one paw and when the man scratched his ears, his neck, finding just the right spots without him having to move, it made him drool a little because it was pure, perfect joy. His deep rumbling purr brought a smile to the man’s face, a few soft words to his lips. This, also, was good.

After a long time the man’s hand dropped away, his breathing got loud and his smell told the cat he had fallen asleep. He moved off of his chest to the space between the man’s side and arm, a warm little pocket, and washed thoroughly before tucking in with a sleepy, contented sigh.

It began in the depths of the night, as it had for the past two nights. Something changed, the quiet peace of the forest at night that filled the little cabin wisped away, replaced by a creeping unease, a spreading fear with red rage laced all around its edges. The cat jerked awake, grateful that he was not now sleeping that strange heavy sleep of the past two nights, when he had been unable to react properly to this hidden menace. He growled irritably, looking about the dim room. There was nothing to attack, nothing to chase away. All appeared the same as before. Beside him the man slept on but his chest began to heave and then he cried out, legs kicking convulsively. It was here, then, the menace was right here, a darkness that was surrounding the man, drawing him into it, an evilness the cat could feel, pulsing, alive, hurting the man terribly.

Out, out, he would drive it out, he was a hunter in the darkness, and he would drive this darkness away from the man. Hissing, the cat lunged, seizing the man’s blanket covered ankle and biting down hard.

The results were immediate. The man cried out again but this time in surprise, his legs ceased thrashing and after a moment he raised himself on one elbow. Sweat slicked his body, dampened the sheets. He uttered a few broken words before rising, going into the main room, setting himself heavily onto the little couch before the fireplace. The cat watched from the bed, watched the man running his hands through his hair, over his face. Heard him sigh a deep, unsettled sigh, and lean back with a groan. The man was distressed, his scent dark.

Awkwardly the cat jumped from the bed and came to him, tail up, tip curled over. I drove it off. It is done. Feel good now. He jumped onto the couch, stepped onto the man’s lap, circling. The man accomodated him by sliding far down on his spine and the cat moved up onto his chest, nearer to his face. He leaned closer, breathed in of the man’s breath. The man was sniffing him, too, and the cat politely exhaled for him. The man’s nose was right before him, wrinkling a little, nostrils flaring slightly. The cat licked the nose, tongue rasping audibly across it, and was rewarded with that special chuckle the man had made before. The man felt better now, he was relaxing, his eyes were looking sleepy. This was good.

The cat and the man spent the remainder of the night together on the couch, and their sleep was sweet and  
undisturbed.

***********

These were idyllic days, of basking before the fire, of eating whenever he wanted, as much as he wanted, and sleeping in the man’s warm lap. Thoughts of Amber, of his search for her, were less urgent while he healed. In some ways this forced respite was a guilty relief. He could relax, he could regroup. He could devote himself to keeping the man safe. He was good at it, and as time passed and the night menace came no more, he sometimes was overcome with the exhilarating feeling that he was meant to do this very thing, to be here with the man right now, broken leg and all. It was a strange thought, one that made him shiver at the mystery of it.

And so days blended into weeks, weeks filled with the deep contentment of belonging. He was happy. He had a home, he loved the man, and knew the man loved him, too, in his gruff way. And so it disturbed him greatly when he came to realize that his happiness wasn’t complete, that some vital element, something essential to his well-being, was lacking.

And that essential thing was…outside. The forest.

He missed stalking the mouse trails, patrolling his territory, marking his scent posts. He missed the wind, the sun, the moon and stars, the smell and feel and sounds of the forest. Even the rain. He missed freedom, and strangely enough, solitude. There were times when he simply wanted to be alone, away from the business of men, even this man.

He wanted both worlds and couldn’t imagine that having such a thing was possible.

And then, too, Amber had begun to weigh upon him. It was difficult for him to admit that part of him had been relieved to stop the endless searching while he healed. That need that had driven him so relentlessly had faded during these weeks with the man, and it worried him. He loved Amber, she was always vivid in his mind. The idea of never searching for her again was both attractive and terribly guilt-producing. He had to keep looking, keep trying to find her…didn’t he? That was his job. He’d been doing it for a long time. It was what he did.

And then, adding to everything else was the problem of his cast. He desperately wanted it gone. His leg had begun to itch horribly beneath it and it was also irritating his skin at the top, rubbing and scraping. He was tired of dragging the thing around. He spent time licking at it, even biting the edge of the fraying plaster, but it made no difference. He worried that it would be there forever. How would he hunt? But…did he even need to worry about hunting now? That thought upset him further. He was cranky, irritable.

He began pacing the cabin’s rooms, stumping along the perimeter of the walls and from window to window, giving voice in a deep, quavering yowl that told all who heard of his discontent while at the same time announcing what a strong and exceptionally fine young tom he was, still master of his turf, albeit unwillingly, temporarily absent.

For the first time he hissed at the man, when he attempted to inspect the cast.

The man withdrew instantly, smelling cautious and thoughtful. Later on, at lunchtime, after eating his bowl of meat, the cat sat washing while the man cleaned up. A full belly always made him happy and his grouchiness had dissipated a bit more with each tasty morsel swallowed. When the man finished his work and approached respectfully, crouching before him with an outstretched hand, the cat told him he would like to be touched by stretching out onto his side and blinking up at him, whiskers smoothed flat against his cheeks.

Carefully the man manipulated his leg, feeling gently around the edge where it was sore, clucking a little. When a long shiny claw emerged from the man’s hand the cat was startled and sat up to sniff it thoroughly, the man patiently turning it this way and that. Who knew people had such weapons? He wondered why he’d never seen this before, why people never extended their claws, or used them. How very strange people could be!

It was over in less time than it took to flick a whisker. The man slipped his claw down between cast and leg, and with just a slight twist the heavy casing was lying broken on the floor, split down the middle, dead.

His leg was floating. No, of course it wasn’t, it was resting firmly on the floor. He looked at it closely, sniffing. The leg smelled bad and looked worse, but felt wonderful. Finally that weight was gone! Oh, to really run again! To pounce, to play! Shimmering ghost-mice took shape and scampered before him, tails wiggling enticingly in invitation. Chase me! Chase me! Bet you can’t catch me!

Briefly his strong hindquarters bunched and rocked, and then he leaped, a fine, high arc that landed him solidly on four good, sturdy legs. Then he was off, tearing into the bedroom where another powerful bound sent him sailing onto the bed. He bounced off it, hurtling back into the main room. Around the couch, soaring to the narrow windowsill, splendid ricochet off from there and into the bedroom again, under the bed this time, quick turn, nip behind the dresser now but whoops! Had to disentangle from an old shirt forgotten back there, what fun lashing it into submission and emerging victorious, sides heaving. That was wild, that was wonderful! Oh, how he wanted to race full out, body stretched long to its fullest extent, with the trees and shrubs of the woods all a blur as he tore past, like the swiftest bird, like lightning, like the magnificent forest cat that he was. His body trembled with the thought of it. Slowly he became aware of his surroundings, of the little cabin around him, and he turned to see the man still crouched where he’d left him, eyes big, impressed. Of course, that was as it should be. The cat came to him, walking evenly, silently. He butted his head against the man’s leg and was rewarded with a rough scratch around neck and ears, a softly murmured flow of admiring words.

But it wasn’t quite the same. The man had pulled into himself. He smelled resigned, a little angry, even. The cat didn’t understand, and wondered if it was he himself that had caused these feelings to come. He started when the man abruptly rose and walked with hard strides to his door and opened it, looking back and speaking a few short words, gesturing to the outside.

The jumbled mosaic of living, moving forest framed in the doorway seized the cat’s every sense, seducing him instantly with tantalizing promises, drawing him through the door and down the creaky porch steps. He looked about in amazed delight, cool wind buffeting him from every direction, the man forgotten.

Towering trees endlessly swaying filled his eyes with their pendular motion, his ears with wonderful rustling secrets. Crisp autumn leaves tumbled this way and that across the little glade, splashes of sunlight blazed bright and warm against his body. A million scents whirled crazily, inviting him, calling him to investigate. It was a rush, it was wild, and it was perfect.

He launched himself, hind legs thrusting powerfully, body low, he streaked through the underbrush, zigging, zagging, flying, sailing, lighter than air he was, and just as effortless. Within moments he was far away, past the furthest point of his old territory, and here he pulled up. A trifle winded, but still in fine fettle, of course. He sat down for a wash, and to think about his first day back outside.

Much later, as the sun was setting and the air cooling, he had finished his tasks. It was good. His scent posts were refreshed, his scratching trees bleeding golden sap from fresh gouges in their skin. He visited his old den beneath the raspberry canes, but that place held nothing for him now. Even so he hesitated, sniffing about, finally lying down for a time, just outside the tangle of brambles in a patch of slanted sun. There really was nothing else to distract him, nothing else to do. He shifted uncertainly, watching through slitted eyes as tiny birds flitted among the scarlet tresses of a maple tree. He should go, now. It was time. He had to go back, for Amber, for them both, to check.

What he really wanted to do was go to the cabin, see what the man was doing, sit on his chest and smell him. He thought about that open door, the man gesturing for him to go out.

The best of both worlds…he had that, now. He trembled a little, whether from happiness or sheer disbelief at his luck, or both, he did not know.

Finally he left the briar patch, weaving a meandering path, unseen and silent, around the edges of the quiet town, through the thin woods, emerging as usual behind Amber’s house. He crept past the garage, down the driveway to the front and quickly slipped beneath the neighbor’s shrubs where he could look about in seclusion.

It was Amber’s house, but not. Everything was different, in inexplicable ways. The lawn was unkempt, a tall expanse of towering, tousled grass that had not seen a mower in many weeks. The screen door was hanging crooked and slightly open, thumping the doorframe with the wind’s gentle nudge but never quite latching. Windows were covered with vast sheets of wood, and another smaller sheet was perched on a pole in the front yard. Worst of all, the smells of his old family, the smells of Amber’s mother were old, so old and faint they were almost nonexistent.

She had left. Amber’s mother was gone now too. It wasn’t their home any longer, it was just a house, an empty, forgotten shell at the end of a tiny dead end street.

For a long time he crouched beneath the neighbor’s sprawling bushes. It freed him, this echoing empty place he had discovered, but it also produced in his heart such a sadness that he was immobilized. Amber was gone for good, she was not findable, and so, neither was his past life.

He mourned.

He spent the remainder of the night and following day beneath those bushes, reluctant to leave, dozing, dreaming, remembering. When once again darkness shrouded the town he made his cautious way back around the house to the rear, to the window he had leapt from on that long ago spring afternoon. It was shut tight now, just like all the others, no way to scrabble inside and prowl about the old rooms. The window above it, that had been Amber’s. He used to perch inside on the sill, next to her little bed, and look out into the yard. It was special, then, that window. Now it was just a window, leading back into nothing.

He turned away, ready, at last, to leave this empty place. He went into the neighborhoods and for a while retraced some of his old pathways behind houses, through alleys, mildly curious about what he’d missed while he was gone. The trash cans were fragrant with discarded food, and although his stomach was empty and rumbling he disdained the very thought of rummaging through them. He wasn’t a scavenger any more. It felt like he was wasting time, here, going through the motions, and he wondered why he was doing this. There was nothing for him here, nothing at all.

His little blue bowl at the cabin, filled with meat, came to mind, and the head scratch the man always gave him when he set it down. He remembered his cast split apart, lying at his feet, and how the man’s scent changed when he’d opened the door, told him he could go out at last. It was as if the man thought he would never see him again. Why would he think such a thing?

It felt as if he’d been away from the man for a long time. Suddenly the cat was very anxious to go back to the little cabin. But not yet, no. He wanted to feed himself, to return with a full belly, and an offering.

Mice. Mice and mice and mice. He enjoyed thinking about mice. He loved the mice, their scampering, their rustling, their mousey stink and their string-like tails dragging behind them, just begging him to swat and grab. Oh yes, the mice. He crept to one of his old, favorite mouse trails and settled in amongst the tangled grasses to wait, breathing deeply of rodent. Oh, my, it was wonderful to be hunting again!

Later, one mouse clenched in his teeth, two in his belly, he slipped beneath his favorite shrub at the edge of the cabin’s glade to observe. It was nearly dawn and the sun’s leading edge was just cresting the horizon. The cabin was silent, dark, cold. He could smell the man inside, he was awake, his spirit withdrawn, resigned, drearily amused, and impatient with himself. The cat waited patiently, and after a time the man’s scent changed, becoming first questioning, then pleased and eager. There came the thud of quick footsteps and the cabin door swung open. His man stepped onto the porch, scanning the glade, instantly pinpointing his location beneath the shrub.

The cat emerged from his hiding place and they regarded each other. It was silent all around them, as if the forest, as if the entire world, was holding it’s breath in anticipation.

And then the man called out a name, a wonderful name that thrummed with power and flowed from his lips like breeze-caught pollen from the pines in spring, all sparkle and swirl and magic.

“Dream Catcher!” the man sang out.

The cat felt the name reach for him, envelop him, become him. His eyes flashed with excitement and he knew with absolute certainty that this was why Amber had to leave, this why he couldn’t remember his kitten name. Even why he’d had to suffer the attack of the creature that had broken his leg. Everything that had happened to him was meant to be, to ready him for this time, this place. This man.

Just as his man stepped gladly forward Catcher dropped the mouse and launched himself, a mighty leap that landed him solidly on his man’s powerful shoulder. He wound his supple body around his head and licked energetically the unruly black hair poking into his face. The man laughed and reached around, hauling him into his arms. Once again they regarded each other, golden gaze meeting blue, noses almost touching, love shining between them. When Catcher remembered the mouse he twisted to be released and the man set him on the ground. Quickly he trotted to where he’d dropped it, tapping it with a paw, looking back.

“That for me?” the man rumbled, coming to him, and it was no real surprise that his words were simply and easily understood. “Well thanks, Catcher. ’Preciate it.”

He pocketed the mouse, patted it, nodding. Job well done, he was saying, and Dream Catcher knew he was right. He was, after all, very good at what he did.

When the man went into his cabin, the cat followed him, happy to be back. The metallic click of the door latching shut gave him a moment of anxiety but he kept the image of the man opening that door for him firm in his mind. He looked about eagerly, thinking, Home, I am home. His blanket, his bowl, all were as he’d left them, and that was good. The man made a fire and when it was blazing merrily, driving away the dark and chill, he called the cat to the rear of the cabin, to the far wall beneath the window.

Something had been done there. Catcher could smell and feel outside air drafting along the floor. He pushed past the man’s legs to see. A piece of the cabin wall had been cut out, a small square of wood and plaster removed, hung on tiny hinges, held with a hook, so that it was open to the outside. He leaned in to look. Yes, there was the woodpile, the dead stump, and beyond that, the trees of the forest. The cabin’s tiny back yard. Catcher sat back and peered up at the man crouched beside him. What was it for, this little opening?

“So you can come an’ go as ya please,” the man said.

It was his! His own little door to the outside. Such a thing was inconceivable, yet here it was, and his man had made it for him. He darted through it, then back in, delighted and relieved. Once more, out, in. His door, his cabin! He wound himself around the man’s legs in gratitude as the man rearranged and added more logs to the fire. He licked the man’s nose when finally they stretched out on the couch. I love you. I love you. Thank you.

Lying atop the heavily muscled chest, Dream Catcher was rocked by the man’s easy breaths. Gentle fingers rubbed his ears while he thought slow, unhurried thoughts of scampering mice and a falling leaves, soft blankets and swaying trees. Of strong, clawed hands holding him, and of the man tucked safe and protected against his sturdy chest. But especially of mice, mice scurrying, mice hurrying, their musky smell so thick he could taste it. After a time the man’s eyes opened slightly. He spoke, voice sleepy and rough.

“Go on. Ya best get goin’ if you’re goin’.”

Silent, swift, Dream Catcher slipped out his special door and into the forest, into hunting mode, one ear cocked to the man inside. His favorite mouse trail was waiting for him. Even the mice were waiting for him, for that was the way of the hunter and the hunted.

And it was all of it very, very good.

 

 

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